Tis All A Game: The Law of the Land
by Morninglight
Summary: On the edge of the Blight, Ferelden's nobility is in disarray with the fall of House Cousland. Sinead Cousland, her husband Teagan Guerrin, Nathaniel Howe and Prince Alistair Theirin must unite diverse factions to combat the darkspawn before the taint overwhelms them all. But in a Landsmeet riven by ancient oaths and feuds, the line between friend and enemy is thinner than a blade.
1. Bann Teagan's Burden

Note: Thanks for reading. This is the fourth in the 'Tis All A Game universe. To understand the background, please read What Is Sown, The Sins of the Fathers and The Houndmaster and the Healer. A lot of this is my personal head-canon and ideas drawn from Janny Wurts' Curse of the Mistwraith and old Celtic legend about the links between King and land.

…

**Bann Teagan's Burden**

Kirkwall, 16th Bloomingtide, 9:30

Teagan awoke and sighed.

It was his second week of facing Sinead's smooth back, her dark copper hair falling loose from the ponytail she wore in bed. The second week of trying to persuade her that he was ignorant of the attack on Highever, of cursing himself for being so blinded by the beautiful maiden he'd missed Rendon Howe's (and presumably Loghain's) plans, and being unable to find the words to convince Marlowe Dumar to look beyond the Twins to the south where darkspawn plagued the Korcari Wilds. Some diplomat, some spymaster he was.

The Bann of Rainesferre rose from the wide bed he shared with his wife and tugged the blanket up over her shoulder; she stirred sleepily, murmuring _"Mo Shearc"_ before slipping back into an uneasy slumber.

_My love,_ he translated sadly. She was truly a gentle soul and he should have let her take vows in the Chantry. But the only daughter of the Couslands was too great a treasure to let putter in the herb gardens or tend to sick children's bellyaches. His loins tightened at the memory of their wedding night, the first and last time they'd made love, and he did his best to quell the feeling. Sinead would submit if he pressed her, but Teagan wanted her to embrace him out of affection, not duty.

_When I return to Denerim I am going to string Howe from the top of Fort Drakon… by the testicles,_ he vowed silently as he washed himself using the ewer and basin. But today he had to venture into Lowtown, into the hive of scum and villainy known as the Hanged Man, and play word games with a dwarf who fancied himself a storyteller but was the biggest information trader in southern Thedas.

Teagan didn't know what Varric wanted but the professional younger brother had been emphatic about his presence in the dive. Perhaps it was because Tethras owned a majority stake in the Hanged Man and could guarantee discretion there.

Sinead turned over, fine linen sheets rustling with the movement, just as he was belting his kilt into place. He'd decided to wear it and be damned to what the rest of Thedas thought; if no help could be found in the Free Marches, Ferelden would be forced to either accept aid from the Orlesians – as Cailan wanted – or face extinction at the hands of the darkspawn. It was a terrible choice they faced.

_"A Stór,"_ he greeted gently as her eyes fluttered open. She began to smile before the frown that customarily creased that high-boned oval face took over. If Teagan could reach back in time, he would tear Howe's heart from his chest for his treason and hang Loghain for his paranoia.

"Grand Cleric Elthina has requested my presence in the Chantry today," she answered. "Something to do with the Vael princeling serving his novitiate there."

"Please see if you can talk both her and the youth into supporting us," Teagan requested. Kirkwall was still shaken by the slaughter of the Vael family but for their black sheep, Starkhaven passing into the hands of a renegade cousin of the clan.

"He'll only support us if we help him take back his throne," she pointed out, getting out of bed. Teagan watched her, hands still for a moment, and wondered how she could be so graceful. It wasn't the taught movements of a noblewoman but the litheness of one who had spent many years working hard and well. The de Launcets found much to be amused about her tan and the coarseness of her hands, but she put Fifi in the shade when it came to beauty.

"Do you have to be there at a particular time?" he asked, fastening his belt and attaching the sporran decorated with Redcliffe's sigil.

"No…" Sinead paused in washing herself, looking over her shoulder.

"Good. I want you to come to Lowtown with me. I need to discuss certain things with an information trader there… and Highever will be one of them."

Her snort was sceptical. "How will I know this man wouldn't be paid to say whatever you want me to hear?"

"Varric Tethras? There's not enough gold in Thedas for him to adulterate the information he trades," Teagan informed her. "Now stories… The man's the biggest liar I know. But I swear by the Oathstone of House Guerrin that whatever he tells me, it will be truth whatever he says about Highever."

"I want to believe you…" she breathed and his heart leapt. "But you're the Houndmaster. How could you miss it?"

Teagan spoke without thinking. "I noted Howe and Loghain's closeness… but I missed its connotations because I was too busy thinking about our impending marriage."

He watched the expressions flicker across her face and blanched when he realised that she was beginning to blame herself. Born at what was considered an ill-luck time in the north, she'd been subtly blamed for everything that went wrong, and had been blatantly called bad luck by her father. Sinead had internalised that attitude to the point that whenever something bad happened in Highever, she automatically believed it was her fault somehow.

"Don't you _dare_ blame yourself!" he told her fiercely as she looked back into the basin, mechanically washing herself.

"If it isn't your fault, then it's mine," she muttered hopelessly.

"Damn it, Sinead…" He sighed and slung his plaid over his shoulder. "I should have looked deeper. It's just that we were on the verge of sorting everything out, the order of succession, fighting the Blight – I… didn't want to see the warning signs. I failed you by not being vigilant. And only the Maker knows what's going to happen now."

She made a broken sound, a harsh cry, and burst into tears for the thousandth time. He abandoned his dressing to embrace her from behind. Miracle of miracles, she didn't push him away now. "Blame me," he urged her. "But not yourself."

"I want to believe you," she breathed again. "But I can't."

He didn't dare ask whether it was about him being innocent of the attack on Highever, him not being vigilant enough, or her being bad luck. Instead he sighed and released her, going to finish getting dressed. It would be a long day for them both.

…

"Hey, little bitch! What's your price-"

Sinead barely had time to comprehend that the rude Kirkwaller at the bar was propositioning her before Teagan had kneed him in the stomach and said loudly, "That's my wife you're talking to."

The Hanged Man was… filthy. The Oak back in Rainesferre wasn't clean by any stretch of the imagination, but this tavern smelt like ten generations of rodents had lived, birthed and died in it. And that wasn't counting the sour stench of vomit and sweat, the odour of cheap beer, and the too-heavy perfume of the barmaid. She longed for the fish and plant smell of Rainesferre.

"Aren't you tough for a man wearin' a skirt?" sneered one of the man's friends. "Maybe I could show your 'wife' what a real man is."

Given that he was shorter, fatter and uglier than Teagan, Sinead couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of her, working past the grief and anger and self-loathing that had been stewing in her since Highever. However amusing his pretension of masculinity was, laughing at the man only made the situation worse. As soon as Teagan had turned his back, the drunk hurled himself at the Bann with a broken bottle in his hand.

Teagan's nonchalantly delivered elbow to the gut sent the drunk staggering, gasping for breath, and Sinead decided that since she was in a bar, she ought to do what women in bars did: get a bottle from a table and deliver a love tap to the back of his head. Having tended this sort of injury dozens of times, she knew exactly where to strike, and he collapsed like a stunned ox.

"Alright, that's enough," the bartender said firmly. "Everybody leave the man and his missus alone."

She and Teagan exchanged glances and a triumphant grin. Then she looked down, trying to avoid the pain in his sky-blue eyes. Her wedding night was now tainted by the horror of Howe's betrayal; her husband pled with her to blame him instead of herself, but she should have submitted to Thom Howe. Then maybe-

"Nicely handled, sweet thing," cooed the… semi-nude woman lounging at the bar. She wore a low-cut laced blouse and boots and golden jewellery… That was it. Given that she had a lush figure, skin darker than even Warden-Commander Duncan's, and a stunningly beautiful face, Sinead could only assume she dressed like that for attention.

"She's married and I don't like men," observed the olive-skinned brunette lounging next to her, wearing a long robe of black and scarlet Antivan brocade.

"There's nothing wrong with admiring the way she handles herself," the semi-naked woman protested.

"Isabela," Teagan noted, turning from the stairway leading to the back of the tavern.

"Well, well, well. I thought they only wore kilts in Starkhaven," drawled 'Isabela', eyes roaming up and down Teagan far too boldly for Sinead's comfort. "If you don't mind me saying so, Teagan, I wholeheartedly approve."

Her companion rolled extraordinary blue eyes to the heavens. "You're shameless, you know that?"

"Just flirting, Jaen, just flirting," Isabela assured the other woman.

Teagan's jaw rippled in frustration. "I'll need to talk to you later. You know why."

Isabela licked her lips salaciously. "You bet I do-"

Sinead, having trusty bottle to hand, knocked out the half-naked wench for eyeing off her husband like he was meat. Jaen and half the Hanged Man's patrons stared at her in shock as Teagan winced.

"That's… an ally. And… she's like that with everyone," he told her in a strangled voice. "She's going to double her fee, assuming she'll deal with me now."

Jaen rolled her eyes again and quietly placed a hand on Isabela's head; Sinead felt the hairs on the back of her neck stir as healing magic was invoked. The woman groaned and shook her head groggily. "I'mma find the bastard who king-hit me!"

"You flirted with Bann Teagan a bit too much," Jaen told her with a sigh. "His wife took exception."

Isabela groaned again, rubbing the bump already forming behind one ear. "Ugh. I can't stab her, can I?"

"No, for a variety of reasons." Jaen eyed Isabela with fond frustration. "Not the least because she beat me to it."

"I hate you. Why am I sleeping with you?"

"The lightning trick," Jaen said smugly.

"Oh, yeah." Isabela sighed, shaking her head with a wince. "I brought your friends back safe and sound, Teagan. But I'm charging you double for this."

Sinead tucked the bottle discreetly in her plaid. It was such a nice sturdy implement and if Teagan was going to drag her into any more taverns, she'd probably need it. Her husband had a pained expression on his face as he chivvied her out of the taproom and up the stairs to a palatial suite furnished in the dwarven style.

Clean-shaven and dapper, Varric Tethras looked nothing like the few dwarves Sinead had met with his half-open leather coat, the crossbow he caressed affectionately and the urbane smirk stamping his features. He was as close to handsome as a dwarf could ever come in her eyes.

"Who is this lovely creature, Bann Teagan?" the information trader asked as he took her hand and kissed it politely in the Orlesian manner.

"My wife, Lady Sinead," he answered as Sinead inexplicably blushed. There was something worldly about Varric that made her feel naïve and uncertain.

Varric's lips pursed. "My Lady," he said, gesturing to a human-sized chair. "I have some information about Highever you might find interesting… and it will cost you nothing."

"Why?" she asked bluntly as she sat down.

"I play politics for fun and profit. But there's a line most of us won't cross. An all-out assault on a castle where only women and children remain after the men have gone to war on the _suspicion_ of treason? That's… despicable."

Sinead remained silent, looking to Teagan for cues. She knew little of this sort of thing and… unsure as she was, he excelled at this game and she… trusted him.

Her husband sat down after closing the door, making runic wards carved into the stone lintel flare briefly before settling into a dull blue glow. "If we're being technical, the Couslands were obeying the orders of the rightful King by carrying those messages to Celene. But to the Landsmeet, making such overtures without consulting them first is also treason – doubly so as it involves the Orlesians."

Varric ah'ed and nodded slowly. "A picky legal conundrum indeed. So far as I know, Celene has no interest in Ferelden as a subordinate province but instead as a source of fresh blood and even ideas. The Imperial nobility is frightfully inbred, hence the rise of chevaliers from wealthy commoners and the expanding of the Court nobility. I suspect she also thinks of the Blight and unity."

"No doubt she also expects Orlais to be the senior partner in such a union," Teagan pointed out. "I am… not opposed to a trade and military alliance, but I would prefer to seek help from the Free Marches to _avoid_ a repeat of the aftermaths of the Third and Fourth Blights."

"You'll be waiting for a long time then," Varric told him sympathetically. "Corbinian Vael's overthrow has made the other rulers of the Free Marches skittish and they're hiring up all the mercenaries they can get."

Teagan's response was creatively obscene. Sinead refused to contemplate the mechanics of an act involving sea creatures, kitchen utensils and a barrel. Instead she asked, "What does this have to do with the attack on Highever, Ser Varric?"

"Everything's connected, my Lady," the dwarf promptly responded. "Loghain and Howe attacked Highever because of fears your family was collaborating with the Orlesians on Cailan's orders, an act which is considered borderline treason in your homeland. I suspect that Arl Eamon, known to be married to an Orlesian and to be vocal in demanding the removal of Anora for barrenness, is on the chopping block too. Given that you and Bann Teagan have no history of 'treason', Howe timed his attack so that the 'untainted' members of both families – namely yourself and your husband – would be spared. Both of you are reputedly submissive in the face of authority, so it could be safely assumed you would bow your heads to Anora – or say Loghain's – authority."

Sinead thought her way through it. "Then that means Cailan is in danger! But he's travelling with Fergus-"

"Loghain won't waste resources. Cailan is only too happy to sign whatever's put in front of him and knowing Howe, your brother's family is in 'protective custody' to keep Fergus under control."

"If Howe thinks that the north wouldn't rise to Fergus' defence, he's got another thing coming," Sinead responded. "What he has done is trigger civil war: if my brother believes that Cailan allowed this-" She shuddered. "The Bluestone Boulder Accord, the very heart of the agreement which binds Ferelden together under the descendants of Calenhad, will be considered broken. And Ferelden will break into squabbling teyrnirs and arlings."

"Well, in theory," Teagan said with a sigh. "Varric-?"

"He's alive. We also have news of Maric." The dwarf looked shrewdly at Teagan. "Your little wildcard has allies of his own, some of them rather significant, and they cross both sides of the current political divide in Ferelden."

Teagan heaved a relieved sigh. "How much do I owe you for this, Varric?"

"Nothing. From what Isabela and Jaen told me, your fosterling saved the whole damn world." The dwarf looked seriously at the Houndmaster as Teagan's head jerked up in surprise. "And no one wants the Blight overwhelming Ferelden and coming north. Wardens are gathering in Jader and Ostwick; if Duncan fails at Ostagar, they'll come whether Ferelden wants them or not."

Sinead shuddered, having studied history extensively in the Chantry. "If the Wardens come, they will show no mercy," she whispered. "Kingdoms are nothing in the face of stopping the Blight."

"And it is a Blight, believe me," Varric agreed grimly. "The darkspawn have retreated from the Deep Roads and casualties are down on the dwarven front."

Teagan's eyes closed and his handsome face crumpled. "Maker's breath…"

"Is there any point to remaining in the Free Marches or should we go home?" Sinead asked the information trader bluntly.

"To be honest, my Lady, I'm not sure," Varric confessed. "Antiva and Rivain both have extensive mercenary forces, but you'd need significant wealth to persuade them to travel halfway across the world to face darkspawn."

"What about the landwards Aldenon set?" Sinead asked of Teagan, who looked ready to succumb to despair. "The blood of the King is the life of the land; the blood of the land is the life of the King."

Her husband's head shot up, eyes opening with a gleam of hope in them. Varric steepled his fingers, listening curiously. "I don't know if the old landwards will slow the darkspawn, but they can at least allow us to sense where the horde is strongest. And if Duncan has the wit to use those treaties to compel Orzammar, the mages and the Dalish to join us-"

"He's got the treaties," Varric confirmed smugly. "Brosca got them."

Teagan took another deep breath. "Sinead, _a stór_, I'd planned to leave you in the Free Marches with my foster family in Ostwick. But if things have deteriorated in Ferelden-"

"I will be the last of the Couslands," she finished, trying not to vomit. "I cannot hide from ths Blight, Teagan. My oaths as a Cousland and a healer forbid it."

"Damn the plans of the fools amongst men," the Bann breathed. "We _must_ bring back Alistair and Nathaniel."

"But of course," rasped a masculine voice from the next room over as a lithe figure detached itself from the shadows of the darkest corner.

"Nathaniel," Teagan greeted as archer's hands pulled down a grey-black hood to reveal a pale face, hook-nosed and black-haired as only a Howe could be but with stone-grey eyes.

"Houndmaster." The eldest Howe son, of whom Sinead knew nothing, smiled mirthlessly. "My father's ambition and hatred have overstepped themselves at last. I am sorry, Lady Sinead, for anything that happened at Highever – if you'll accept my condolences."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're implying your father's been looking for an excuse-"

Nate laughed bitterly. "The Howes have been looking for an excuse to reclaim Highever since Salim Cousland," he informed her. "Your father drooling over Cailan and Anora's childlessness didn't help matters."

Teagan rapped his knuckles on the stone table, drawing everyone's attention. "Sinead, what I'm about to tell you is one of the most tightly held state secrets I possess. Even implying it outside this room will force me to… be harsh. Howe knows because he accompanied this particular state secret at my order; Varric already knew and watched him at my request."

"I'm not even sure if Cailan himself knows," Nate noted as he sat down without a by-your-leave. "He's still on Isabela's ship."

"Maric the Saviour had a second son, a bastard, with an elven Grey Warden mage," Teagan continued as Sinead shivered at his hard tone. "At my request, this bastard has spent the past year or so searching for King Maric."

Nate pulled out something shiny and tossed it to Teagan. "His wedding ring."

Teagan's face weakened for a moment before he sighed. "He would only part with this at death," he finally said. "Thank you, Nathaniel."

"We got the bastard who took Maric," Nate responded. "And… Alistair is _himself._ Not a poor copy of Maric or Cailan. I literally followed him to the depths of the Fade and would do so again."

Sinead's hand twined with Teagan's beneath the table. She honestly didn't understand a quarter of the subtext of the conversation but she understood that her husband's attention had been divided by more than her. "Calenhad was also a bastard," she pointed out. "Perhaps someone who's been through the fire is what Ferelden needs."

Teagan squeezed her fingers gratefully. "Who's with him, Nate?"

"Bethany, an apostate – I'll need you to sort out that paperwork; Daveth, who'd really like some hanging offences cleared up; and Zevran Arainai, a Crow Master who's sworn personal loyalty to Alistair," was the prompt reply.

"Can I count on your loyalty to the Crown, Howe?"

"I'm a Howe. Loyalty to the Crown is bred into our bones." He smiled sadly at Sinead. "My father genuinely believes what he's doing is the right thing, Lady. It's no excuse, but if it's any consolation, I intend to kill him."

"I… What?" she blurted, staring at the archer in shock.

"My father is a rabid dog and needs to be put down. Loghain's half-senile and we could probably give him to the Wardens; I'm sure Duncan and Brosca have a few dozen slights they'd like to avenge." Nate's smile was bleak. "Rendon's ambition and hatred have led to this pass, Sinead Guerrin, not your birthdate or anything you told Teagan. So lay the blame where it's due."

_"The Howes have always been Ferelden's boot-knife,"_ her mother had once told her. _"They are utterly without remorse or scruples when protecting the kingdom."_

"Sometimes I wonder if Aldenon did us a favour by binding virtues to the bloodlines," she mused aloud. "_My_ father's sense of justice led him to put things in place to allow a smooth transition of power when Cailan's childlessness and… carelessness… became apparent. That, of course, triggered _your_ father's paranoia and… ah… cunning, which led him to gather incriminating evidence, which brought Loghain into it, and then poor Teagan and Eamon are left trying to sort out everything and keep Ferelden together because the Guerrins are bound to preserve and defend Ferelden…"

"And in will come Alistair, stubborn as a mule and with the Theirins' charisma, to smash everything to pieces," Nate added, pinching his hooked nose. "When we have a strong ruler like Maric, we work like horses in harness. But since Cailan, though not a bad man, is… weak and the old blood distrusts Anora-"

"Indeed." Sinead sighed as Varric rummaged around for a pen and vellum. Somehow she knew that this man would keep everything said within here sacrosanct – unless it suited a good story, of course. Then it would be so fanciful that few would believe it to be fact. "Teagan. _mo shearc_, what are we going to do?"

The endearment slipped out without thinking. She couldn't blame him for missing this and hate Nathaniel, who'd been watching over the true heir to the kingdom, for the actions of his father. Maker's breath, she wished she'd stayed in the Chantry.

But then she wouldn't have Teagan.

His fingers tightened around hers desperately as he whispered, "I don't know."


	2. Prince Alistair's Decision

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. My version of Sebastian is slightly different to canon because he hasn't yet taken vows.

…

**Prince Alistair's Decision**

Kirkwall, 17th Bloomingtide 9:30

"My apologies for not coming yesterday, your Grace-"

"I understand, Lady Sinead." Grand Cleric Elthina's kindly voice interrupted the apologies delivered by a lighter, Fereldan-accented soprano. "The news from the south is worrisome and soon you will be in the thick of it."

Alistair, sitting quietly in the pews at the back of the Kirkwall Grand Chantry, looked over the railings at the slim, pretty little thing called Lady Sinead. Freckle-faced and copper-haired, she wore a simple linen gown of blue and a woman's plaid in the Redcliffe tartan; rather young for Bann Teagan, but he supposed the pickings would be slim when it came to a decent husband amongst the nobility of Ferelden, if Nate's stories were anything to go by.

_And after Highever, she wouldn't touch a Howe with a ten-foot pole,_ the prince thought glumly. _Maker's breath, the pride of men and fools!_

He was still having trouble with the aftermath of his adventures in northern Thedas; while it was a relief to know his parents wanted him hidden for the best of reasons, he couldn't relinquish the resentment that the shadow of Maric the Saviour – and the revelations about the Theirin bloodline – cast over his future. It was so tempting to stay with Isabela and Jaen on the Siren's Call, to forget about Ferelden, to just be himself. But he didn't have that luxury. Cailan needed to know…

Well, Alistair knew enough about his brother now to understand that telling the King he'd been abandoned without a farewell by Maric twice would shatter him. He couldn't do that to Cailan. But the King needed to know about the dragon's fire, the landwards and the connection between royal and land-

There was still the outstanding issue of Claudio Valisti, who'd gone to ground upon their return to Antiva, and Anora's willingness to hire Crows to kill him. Rennio d'Antiva had promised Alistair would remain untroubled – but after Highever, would that vow hold true? Details were still garbled about who had lived and died in Howe's treacherous attack, but if worst came to worst, the slender maid talking to the Grand Cleric was the rightful Teyrna of Highever. And only the Maker knew how she felt about Theirins now.

"Can Kirkwall offer us more than platitudes?" Sinead asked, dispensing with the small talk. "We need an outside alliance; it's either the City of Chains or the Orlesians."

The Grand Cleric spread her black-gloved hands helplessly. "I can do nothing but pray the Viscount's heart will be inclined to aid you, Lady Sinead."

"Or you could tell the Knight-Commander to get off her tin-plated backside and lean on the man to help us," Sinead pointed out with a touch of acid to her voice.

Elthina sighed as Alistair stifled a chuckle. "That was unworthy of an affirmed sister, Lady Sinead."

"What part of 'my home was destroyed because of the merest hint we had relations with the Orlesians, we have the darkspawn massing on our southern borders, and if Ferelden is overrun the Free Marches won't be far behind' did you miss, Your Grace?" Sinead asked bitterly.

"I mourn for your troubles, but the Free Marches have their own," Elthina responded severely. "It's all I can do to stop Sebastian Vael from starting a civil war in Starkhaven."

"Why not let him go? Goran has so little support a single well-trained mercenary company could see him ousted and Sebastian on the throne before summer's end," the ex-lay sister suggested with more pragmatism than Alistair expected. Maybe being Teagan's wife had taught her some practical lessons.

"Because someone else is pulling the strings behind Goran, someone who was responsible for my family's murder," observed a strong Starkhaven brogue as Sebastian Vael, in all his shiny white-armoured glory, ascended the stairs.

"So go talk to Varric Tethras. Make him the right offer and he'll give you the information," Sinead countered calmly.

The Starkhaven royal was a creature of tan skin, slicked-back brown hair and dazzling blue eyes, the unbroken line of his imperial nose and forehead giving him a distinctly noble appearance. He smiled and bowed to Sinead, taking her hand and kissing it in the Orlesian manner. "It's a pleasure to see someone wearing the plaid," he told her. "What clan are you from, my Lady?"

_"Sciath na Thuaidh,"_ she answered. "House Cousland of Ferelden."

"I… Oh. I mourn for your loss," Sebastian said softly. "I would do what I can, but you know the situation Starkhaven is in."

Sinead nodded with a sigh. "I know, I know…"

"I cannot believe the Howes would be so treacherous! We fostered their heir; he's no kin of ours-"

"Nathaniel Howe had nothing to do with the attack on Highever," Sinead interrupted, trying to tug her hand out of Sebastian's grasp. "I lay blame only where it is due."

Alistair shifted on his pew, his buttocks going numb just as the gossip was getting good. If he could get some idea of what was going on in Ferelden, he could make an informed choice. Teagan knew he was alive but the ex-templar wanted to stay under cover just a little longer to weigh up his options.

"Perhaps, my Lady Cousland, you could furnish me with an introduction to this Serah Tethras?" Sebastian continued.

Sinead nodded, trying to remove her hand _again._ There were some vague rumours that Sebastian had been quite the hellion before being shoved into the Chantry and it seemed the prince had no clue that the copper-haired maid was married.

"I'm sure my husband, Bann Teagan, can arrange something," she answered coolly with no particular emphasis on the word 'husband'.

Alistair concealed a grin. Bann Teagan was going to have his hands full with this one.

Sebastian ah'ed and looked a little crestfallen. "That would be appreciated," he murmured. "If… something… could be arranged swiftly, your prediction would become true and the turmoil of the Free Marches settled enough for us to aid Ferelden."

_Huh, there's a thought: find out the people responsible for the Vaels' deaths, get that popinjay on the throne, and get the help of Starkhaven and maybe even Kirkwall,_ Alistair mused silently. _Though if I show up with a bunch of Free Marchers at my heels, Anora will scream INVASION…_

Someone threw open a door with a crash. "Where's the sodding Prince?"

Carver Hawke, resplendent in Grey Warden plate, strode through the Chantry with clerics following him uselessly flapping their hands. Alistair remembered Beth and Jaen's Grey Warden brother from both Lothering and the fortress where Corypheus had been bound. Barely fifteen… or was it sixteen now? Alistair didn't know. But the swordsman was big as a barn and carried a greatsword like it was a feather. And he looked pissed.

Sinead blinked and Sebastian stepped forward. "I am Sebastian Vael, rightful Prince of Starkhaven. How can I help you, Grey Warden?"

Alistair adjusted his hood and looked for a discreet exit as Carver looked the pretty boy up and down. "I'm looking for the Fereldan one."

_Oh you big-mouthed son of a bitch!_ Alistair thought as he surrendered to the inevitable and stood up. "How can I help you?" he asked with a sigh.

"What the hell are you thinking to drag my sister back to Ferelden?" Carver's language deteriorated from there, showing a complete disregard for the Grand Cleric and Lady Sinead, as Alistair descended to the lectern where Elthina preached on the Maker's Day.

"Your sister's a big girl," Alistair responded. "Besides, you couldn't pry her off Nathaniel Howe with a stick."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I'm just saying that Nate and your sister know each other… in the Chanting sense," the Prince of Ferelden told him. "She's a big girl and we can get paperwork to sort out any… ah… issues."

"Your Grace, the girl they're referring to is Bethany Amell-Hawke, personal mage of Prince Alistair Theirin," Sinead quickly said to Elthina. "She's been in service to him for about a year or so, but nothing has been officially sorted with the Chantry because they were on a mission vital to Ferelden's interests."

"She was to be transferred to Kinloch Hold, but we got caught up in a security issue," Alistair agreed as Carver went a dangerous shade of purple. "Could you please approve the transfer? She's a powerful battlemage and her talents would be better suited to frying darkspawn than sitting in the Gallows."

"What you ask is a little irregular but…" Elthina sighed. "I will approve it. You and Cullen had already sorted out the transfer, according to his report, and Ferelden will certainly have need of her."

"My sister isn't-"

"HAWKE!" A lightly-accented Orlesian voice bellowed out Carver's last name; the Warden-Ensign winced as Riordan strode in, looking exasperated. "Why aren't you on the boat to Ferelden?"

"He came here to profane the Maker's house with choice words over his sister accompanying Prince Alistair to the same destination," Elthina observed severely. "Sister Petrice, fetch my seal, wax and parchment. I have a letter to write."

Some blonde sister obeyed while Carver turned from Alistair to confront his senior. "My sister should be in Rivain, not Ferelden-"

"Your sister either goes as the Prince's mage or as a Warden-Mage," Riordan interrupted sharply. "Both of them-"

"Jaen's already gone to Rivain with Isabela," Alistair informed him quietly. "They saw no reason to stick around."

Riordan nodded, lips pursed. "Very well. You know that going to Ferelden will make for some… interesting times."

"After the past two years I've had, it couldn't get any worse," Alistair noted. "Cailan's not entirely stupid, but it's that blighted wife of his I'm worried about."

"Queen Anora's in a difficult position," Sinead said softly.

"Difficult? She sent a bloody assassin after me, woman!" Alistair told Teagan's wife exasperatedly.

"Probably because Rendon Howe's been feeding her and Teyrn Loghan's paranoia," Sinead answered calmly. "I think you'll find much of the current turmoil lies with him."

It wouldn't do him much good to argue with Bann Teagan's wife, so Alistair chose to shut up and instead say, "You might as well run me to Bann Teagan then, my Lady."

"Of course, Prince," she said noncommittally. Alistair didn't think she really liked him. "Prince Vael and Warden Hawke might as well come too."

Elthina wrote out and sealed the letter allowing Bethany Hawke to serve Alistair in Ferelden. "I hope this helps against the Blight," she told Alistair, giving him the letter.

"It will, Your Grace," he confirmed with a bow.

"It would be my pleasure to escort you," Sebastian told the Cousland girl with a smile.

"I'm _married,_" Sinead told him bluntly.

"My Lady, I would never do anything untoward!" Sebastian protested.

"Then why haven't you let go of my hand?"

"My apologies." Sebastian smiled at Teagan's wife, who didn't look much happy to be flirted with. Maybe she had a stick up her arse like Anora… Or maybe she really did love Teagan. He hoped it was the latter, because the man deserved a good wife.

As they left the Chantry, Alistair realised that he'd already made his decision. Now only the Maker knew what would come of it.

_Whether Anora likes it or not, I am a legitimate Prince of Ferelden,_ he thought grimly. _I don't want Cailan's throne, but if something goes wrong in this Blight, I'll have no choice. I only hope that everyone will see that. Because if they don't…_

_ …What happened in Highever will seem like a Summerday picnic compared to the chaos of a civil war._


	3. The Regent's Declaration

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. The plot nugs are insane, aren't they? I apologise for the short chapter, but I honestly wasn't sure how I could extend this.

…

**The Regent's Declaration**

Ostagar, 7th Justinian 9:30

"_HOWE DID WHAT?"_

Fergus was just preparing his latest scouting report for Teyrn Loghain when Cailan's voice cut over the noise of the encampment in a roar worthy of Maric. He stuffed his helmet under his arm and walked swiftly towards the King's pavilion because of Howe had done something wrong, no doubt the Couslands were involved. And since the day after they'd left Castle Cousland, he'd felt an underlying sense of dread that he'd attributed to the coming Blight.

"I know about your messages to Celene that the Couslands carried for you," Loghain answered, his voice audible just outside the canvas walls. "Something had to be done, Cailan. Eamon and Bryce Cousland were advising you for their own benefit."

"If you haven't noticed, the darkspawn horde is growing by the day. I can almost taste the taint in the air." Cailan's voice was tight with fury. "We need the Orlesians. By the Maker, Loghain, do you _understand_ what Howe has done?"

"I didn't expect such… savagery." Loghain's voice was suddenly weary.

"Savagery? _Savagery?_ Do you fucking understand what has been unleashed here? With one simple act of treason, Rendon Howe has rendered the Bluestone Boulder Accord null and void _and_ declared war upon the royal family of Antiva. _Do you fucking understand what that means, Loghain?"_

"Be silent, boy! You went behind the Landsmeet's back to go to Celene with hat in hand. Howe's acts were… excessive. But it is you, not he, who is the true traitor to Ferelden."

Fergus remained silent as the enormity of the implied news sank in. Howe had done… something. Something that had hurt the Couslands. Now the lateness of his father's arrival was explained, if not in detail.

"What happened to my family, Loghain?" the Tanist of Highever demanded, delivering a death glare to the King's guard beside the tent's front-flap. "What the fuck has Howe done?"

"Let him in," Cailan told the guard, who complied.

Inside, the pavilion was surprisingly spartan for one with Cailan's decadent tastes. A comfortable pallet, a folding camp-stool and table, and reams of maps provided a backdrop for the golden King and his dark general. Cailan's face was ashen, a dull horror in those bright blue eyes, while Loghain's face was dour and stubborn.

"What. Has. Happened. To. My. Family?" Fergus demanded again through gritted teeth.

"Acting on the orders of Loghain, Rendon Howe sacked Castle Cousland and slaughtered most of its inhabitants in a search for 'traitors'," Cailan replied flatly. "The messenger from Highever was brought to me before Loghain could get a hold of him."

"Who is dead?" Fergus dimly realised he sounded surprisingly calm for a man who'd probably lost his family. Cailan's horrified gaze indicated that this was done without his knowledge.

"Your parents are confirmed dead. Sinead and Teagan were on the boat to Kirkwall before it happened and… no one knows what happened to Oriana and Oren yet."

Loghain squared his shoulders and met Fergus' gaze bravely. "I told Howe to do what he had to, so long as he was discreet, and that your sister, wife and son be spared because to the best of my knowledge they had nothing to do with Cailan's treason. I've already put in motion something to deal with that Orlesian-loving bastard Eamon and his whore of a wife. Even if I should be executed for what I've done, Ferelden will be protected from Cailan's rank stupidity."

Fergus' hand almost went to his sword – but he was still in the presence of the King. "Cailan, do you swear by the Maker, His Bride and the land you knew nothing of this?"

"I do so swear." The King's voice was shaky. "By the Maker, Fergus, I am so sorry-"

"You are a boy, a child playing at war," the Teyrn interrupted harshly. "You long for glory and accolades, to surpass the legend of your father. That the line of Calenhad will end with you is… tragic."

Loghain grimaced briefly, grey eyes flickering between the Teyrn of Highever and the gape-mouthed King of Ferelden. "He is not… the last of the Theirins," the likely soon-to-be dead Teyrn of Gwaren finally said. "Maric fathered a bastard."

Bog-brown and sky-blue eyes swung his way and Loghain managed a mirthless smile. "Alistair's his name. The Guerrins kept him in reserve in case something… happened with Cailan."

_Teagan knew of this and said nothing,_ Fergus thought dully. No wonder the man had been so calm about sorting out the succession.

"The traitor has confessed his crimes," Cailan said after a shuddering sigh. "His life is yours to do with as you wish, Teyrn Fergus."

"Your stupidity has brought us to this pass," Fergus told the blond. "We were loyal to the Theirins, even when they forgot about us. The Shield of the North has always protected Ferelden, even when the law of the land was forgotten. We will protect it until the last Cousland dies."

_Maker, let Oriana and Oren be safe. If not, hold them in Your care until I come to Your side. Let Sinead be safe in the Free Marches._ He was… not happy with Teagan for keeping the truth of a Theirin heir from the Couslands, but it was clear from the man's gaze he adored Sinead. And if Eamon was dead as Loghain implied, then the Castle of the Centre would be needed to hold Ferelden together.

"You!" he barked to the King's guard. "Get every noble and commander in the camp here, yesterday!"

The guard obeyed. Once he had gone, Fergus turned back to the fool and the traitor. "By the decision of the last Landsmeet, I am the Tanist of Ferelden. I will hold the power of the Crown in Regency until this Theirin heir shows up or the Landsmeet decides otherwise. You two have given me no choice."

"You dare-" Cailan began, only to be quailed by Fergus' livid glance.

"You dragged my family into this mess by invoking the old vows, Cailan. You are no fit King and Loghain is a traitor. Until it is proven otherwise, I will treat Anora as innocent." The Teyrn of Highever took a deep, shuddering breath. "I will hang Howe from Fort Drakon, do you understand? I will subject him to tortures that even the Crows will consider horrific first if my son and wife are dead."

The first to arrive were the dark-skinned Duncan, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and Arl Urien Kendalls of Denerim. "Invoking the old laws, are we?" Kendalls asked calmly.

"_An dlí ar an talamh,"_ Fergus confirmed. "I know our two families aren't on the best of terms, Urien, but I hope you will put Ferelden above any… issues."

"If you're referring to your sister calling my son a rapist in front of the court…" Urien grunted. "Your sister's Chantry-bred. My son pays those girls to oblige him – and pays them well. Your father paid honour price for the insult, so according to the old laws it's forgiven as I accepted it. You will have my support."

"Old laws?" Duncan asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Rendon Howe attacked Castle Cousland and slaughtered all within," Fergus told the Warden flatly. "On Loghain's orders, which were issued because we obeyed the King's direct command to carry communications to Empress Celene for him. Cailan has proven himself unfit for King and Loghain is a traitor. So as Tanist of Ferelden, I am invoking the right of regency until the Guerrins' mythical bastard Theirin shows up or the Landsmeet decides otherwise."

The Rivaini folded his arms calmly. "Alistair is not mythical. He's currently in Kirkwall."

Fergus would give a lot to know how Duncan knew of this Alistair and the Couslands didn't, but he didn't want to piss off the Order that would save Ferelden. Arls Wulff and Leonas Bryland showed up, and before Cailan could gather himself to speak, Fergus told them what was going on.

Wulff grunted. "Good, someone competent is in charge." He eyed Loghain and Cailan grimly. "Give those two to the Grey Wardens."

Cailan's stunned demeanour turned to a happy one. "If the Landsmeet feels this is the best solution, I will gladly abdicate in favour of my brother Alistair."

"Give me a clean death," Loghain requested, holding his head up defiantly. "I deserve it for my services to Ferel-"

Fergus punched him, fist hitting his chin so hard his head snapped back and he stumbled into Cailan's camp table. "Your fucking paranoia has killed my family!" the Teyrn of Highever roared, the dam on his anguish and grief breaking.

He was about to land a second blow when Duncan caught his wrist. "We'll take him," the Warden-Commander said softly. "We will need every competent soldier we can get."

Fergus nodded curtly, stepping back. "Fine." The nobles and commanders had all arrived, various expressions of shock, calculation and satisfaction on their faces. "I am invoking the Law of the Land in the wake of Loghain's authorisation of an attack on Highever by Rendon Howe; Cailan is unfit to rule. There is another Theirin, one named Alistair, who is supposedly in Kirkwall. If he returns to Ferelden, the Landsmeet can decide his right to the Mabari Throne. Until then, I am Regent. Any questions?"

"What will happen to Anora?" Alfstanna of Waking Sea asked.

"I will assume she's innocent of this and instate her as Teyrna of Gwaren," Fergus immediately responded. Maker's breath but he wanted to crawl into a hole and die, he was so fearful for Oren and Oriana, so heartbroken by his parents' deaths. But he didn't have that luxury.

"What of the Guerrins?" Leonas pointed out. "Are they… involved?"

Fergus closed his eyes. "Loghain said he'd arranged for Eamon and Isolde's deaths. If you're asking whether Teagan knew about this, I suspect it slipped past him in his eagerness to marry my sister."

"Not to sound crude, but he _was_ sniffing around the girl like a hound in heat," Urien observed. He threw a glance at Cailan, who looked oddly relieved, and Loghain's prone form. "It's good to know one of the oldest families in Ferelden is running the show now."

"I'm glad you're happy," Fergus responded bitterly. "Because if you ask me, the price is too damned high."

Then he squared his shoulders. "Present your reports. We need to decide tactics for the next wave of the darkspawn horde."

Even in grief, even in death, there was always duty to be done.


	4. Arl Rendon's Necessity

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. This story is incredibly AU, even more so than I planned. Blame some of the stranger ideas on Eilonwycousland, my main Facebook brainstormer. ^_^ I also intend to… humanise… some of the more disliked characters like Anora and Rendon. The latter's still a jerk, but I'm making him be a jerk for what (in his mind) are justifiable reasons.

…

**Arl Rendon's Necessity**

Denerim, 9th Justinian 9:30

Rendon Howe's hands shook as he poured himself another snifter of brandy, wondering how carefully laid plans had gone wrong. His mage allies at Ostagar had sent word of Fergus' actions and the ready acceptance of his authority; instead of a cowed, obedient vassal for the Mac Tirs, he now was facing the virtual King of Ferelden and a united kingdom once the darkspawn were defeated. Loghain was forced into the Grey Wardens, a fate far more wretched than such a good man deserved; at least that golden fool Cailan was dispatched alongside him. Unless the Arl of Amaranthine was blessed by the traitorous Tanist joining his parents in death, soon it would be Rendon who hung and the Howes cast out as pariahs for being loyal to Ferelden's interests.

"Can I have some of that?" asked Anora's light, brittle voice from the doorway. Rendon wordlessly poured the soon-to-be former Queen a generous measure and passed it to her. Ever the child of her father, she tossed it down in one gulp before sitting down at his table.

"We miscalculated," Rendon admitted with stark honesty, a rarity for him. "I never expected such forcefulness from Fergus."

Anora chuckled bitterly. "He is only Regent for that wretched bastard of Maric's that the Guerrins fostered."

"I don't suppose there's any hope of turning them against each other?" Rendon mused after swallowing his own brandy, its warmth sliding down his gullet and into his belly.

"With Teagan's marriage to Sinead and affection for Alistair? Not likely," Anora answered mournfully.

"I did what I had to," Rendon repeated. "Bryce was-"

"Perhaps Bryce Cousland was nothing more than a misguided man," Anora interrupted. "Cailan used the old oaths to compel him, Rendon."

Howe muttered something under his breath. If the King had shown that much intelligence in running the country…

"We have Fergus leading an army, Oriana Cousland somewhere out there, and Teagan likely to turn on us once it becomes generally known Arl Eamon got himself killed at Highever," Anora continued with a sigh. "We should have hired the Crows."

"I agree." Rendon had argued against hiring the assassins because of the cost. But because of the gigantic mess brewing in the south, the several thousand sovereigns would have been cheaper than a civil war.

"Hindsight is ever perfect," noted a richly Antivan baritone as Anora's guard entered the room, removing his helmet to show a haggard but well-groomed man with brown hair and olive skin. "Please, forgive me the deception. Your guard is safe and sound in the barracks."

"Prince Claudio," Anora greeted, her voice cold with the forced serenity she displayed when surprised. "I am… surprised to see you here."

"Given that the contract we agreed to wasn't carried out?" the Antivan Crow Grandmaster observed with self-deprecating humour. "I beg your forgiveness. I thought the man I sent on the job better – and more loyal – than he proved to be."

The man sat down and poured himself some brandy without a by-your-leave. "I am offering my services for free beyond bed and board," he continued. "Alistair Theirin has cost me dearly. And Rennio d'Antiva, my greatest enemy, is behind your Couslands."

"Ah, vengeance is a great uniter of people," Rendon agreed. He was fairly certain that the Antivan had his own agenda, but at the moment…

"We cannot turn away allies," Anora concluded with a sigh. "I trust you will remain discreet."

Claudio flashed his teeth in what passed for a grin. "I travelled from Antiva to here with the Crows looking for me. I will be fine."

Rendon poured himself some more brandy. "Your Majesty, you need to leave."

"Plausible deniability?" If Cailan had possessed half this woman's brains, he would have been a formidable King. Anora rose to her feet, made her farewells, and left the salon of Rendon's small townhouse.

"I have somewhat more recent news," the Crow said. "Your son has given allegiance to Theirin. That man now has a Master Crow – Zevran may have betrayed me, but he was due the title – and an accomplished Hound personally loyal to him. Your son is cavorting with an apostate descended from the Amells of Kirkwall, Teagan Guerrin is already courting Sebastian Vael as a potential ally, and Isabela of the Felicisima Armada and Varric Tethras count Alistair as a personal friend. Oh, and some Chasind thief with ties to the Witches of the Wild is involved."

Rendon chuckled ruefully. "Nate's planned to kill me since the age of nine. But Alistair… That boy is smarter than both his father and brother."

"It is the Theirin charisma that draws people to him," Claudio noted. "The d'Antivas are similar."

"Oriana can't be found," Rendon admitted. "Is she trained as a Crow?"

"No… But she is likely a _Bella Signora_, a Beautiful Lady – the Antivan equivalent of a bard," the assassin responded. "Rennio should have kept her close in Antiva, not wed her to the Cousland heir. But he never had the heart to deny his sister."

Rendon allowed himself a curse. Orlesian bards were bad enough. The Antivan equivalent with a Crow brother? That was all he needed!

"You didn't mention Sinead Cousland – Guerrin, I mean," he pointed out.

Claudio rolled his eyes. "That one? She is nothing more than a Chantry-reared healer without even the cunning to use her talents for pragmatic reasons. She is, however, remarkably jealous of anyone flirting with her husband."

"It would be… a pity… to destroy Teagan," Rendon noted. "The man is loyal. I can even see why he protected Alistair. If we can eliminate the bastard, hopefully he'll fall into line."

"You have killed his brother and threaten his sister-in-law. That could make things… difficult."

"True. Sinead is stubborn, but fundamentally docile. I'll… handle Teagan and set the girl up as Arlessa, marry her to one of Wulff's boys to put in a loyalist." Rendon once again silently cursed the necessity of killing good people for the sake of Ferelden. But the new Arl of Redcliffe was a dangerous man as Houndmaster and would need to be eliminated.

"_I_ will. With all respect, Rendon, you're shit as an assassin," Claudio observed dryly. "You've botched up the Couslands by trying to handle it yourself."

Rendon gritted his teeth in anger but nodded. Claudio was right. His envy of and bitterness towards Bryce had blinded him towards certain practical truths. An assassin would have made the family's elimination look like a sickness and Fergus wouldn't now be in control of the army in the South.

"Tell me what you need and I'll give you it," Rendon finally said.

The Crow nodded in satisfaction. "Excellent. May I stay here until I can get some funds of my own?"

"Be my guest." Rendon poured the Crow another snifter of brandy. "Tell me everything about this Theirin. He's the most immediate threat."

The Howes were the sgian-dubh of Ferelden and this time he wouldn't fail his kingdom.

…

Above all other things, Anora was a realist. Rendon Howe was _here_ with an army and the people who would support her were all down south fighting darkspawn under Fergus Cousland, who had every right to declare himself Regent with the idiocy Cailan displayed. The Tanist of Highever had shown more mercy than she expected in making her father a Grey Warden; at least Cailan got to live out his dream.

She knew that Rendon would try to eliminate Teagan in addition to Alistair. The new Arl of Redcliffe was a quiet, solid man with surprisingly strong ethics given his position as commander of Ferelden's spies. And Sinead, for all that Claudio seemed to blow her off as a threat, reminded Anora far too much of herself ten years ago: smart but still naïve. The Cousland girl would count for more than the men expected.

_And she freely gave up the information that led to my courses starting again. I think if approached correctly, she could be an ally…_

Anora had been running Ferelden for five years since Cailan came to the throne. She _knew_ that she was the best ruler the kingdom could have. Perhaps even Rendon felt the same, though she knew the man would encourage her to marry the odious Thomas. Pity Nathaniel had taken up with the Amell woman…

Cailan would seek divorce and frankly, Anora would be happy to grant it to him. Once she loved the golden-haired Prince with his ready grin but years of casual infidelity and lack of heirs had turned her fond regard to… affectionate resignation. If only Cailan hadn't sought out that… woman… Celene!

_I cannot approach Fergus directly. He may even have the desire for the throne now. I must trust that Rendon and Claudio will deal with Alistair and be prepared to distance myself if they don't. I must be the administrator of the country – as I've always been._

Though Anora had trained herself to be Queen, she could accept being Chancellor and Teyrna of Gwaren if it meant she remained in control of the nation's destiny. She wasn't the best general and was honest enough with herself to admit it; she could, however, rely on Ser Cauthrien if the woman survived Ostagar.

_I will need to send messages to Brosca in Orzammar and Sinead in Kirkwall,_ the Queen thought musingly as she allowed herself to be shown into the carriage by her other guard. _Given the situation in the dwarven city and the Warden-Second's fairly direct methods of solving it, I think I can count her as a pragmatic ally. And Bhelen has always been a smart, progressive man. Sinead… She of all people will be able to understand the cost of a civil war on the human level, something I truly cannot. I will give her Rendon if I must as Nathaniel seems to be both competent _and _sane…_

Anora would need to plan for the army at Ostagar failing. _More tithes and levies… I believe most of the Wardens gathering in the Free Marches are Fereldan. I wonder if I can gain support from the Circle of Magi by promising more autonomy? "Magic is meant to serve man, not rule him" but I'm fairly certain locking them away will lead to trouble. _Supervised autonomy_ on the other hand…_

Wasn't there an Amell at Kinloch Hold _and_ one involved with Nate? Both female. It would be a line of investigation worth pursuing…

_The men go off to play war and it is left to we women to keep the world going in their absence._ Anora sighed, cursing men and their ambitions: Cailan for his naivety, Eamon for that damned pride of his, Bryce Cousland for being frustrated, her father for not consulting her first and Rendon for acting before thinking, Fergus and Teagan for being proud loyal fools… Even Maric for dying.

_I must handle this very carefully. I will do Ferelden no good dead._

Anora sighed again. A woman's work was never done.


	5. The Warden's Life

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! All the Origins will make an appearance, if only a cameo. For those new to the story: Brosca's origin happened about ten years ago, Cousland is married to Teagan, and Mahariel will be revealed in this chapter.

…

**The Warden's Life**

Ostagar, 11th Justinian 9:30

"Tonight you go into the Wilds."

Cailan looked up from the sword he was sharpening to smile nervously at Duncan. The dark-skinned Commander of the Grey had assigned him to scut work since accepting the former King as a Warden-Recruit, no doubt to teach him humility. The common-born Wardens and recruits had been hazing him and Loghain fairly fiercely, though Jory of Redcliffe was practically obsequious to them. The former Teyrn scowled at everyone with his typical dour defiance but Cailan had taken it in his stride. It was a relief to not have the fate of the Kingdom on his shoulders.

Duncan's dark gaze was grim and bitter; his lady love Brosca had been summoned to Orzammar to help sort out the succession crisis because of her close links to the Aeducans. Cailan recalled meeting the proud dwarven woman once as a Warden and asking if she really bathed in an Ogre's skull. _"I use it for a wash basin,"_ she'd chuckled, humouring his teenage questions.

"You're frustrated because only the mages have answered the treaty, aren't you?" Cailan asked in answer.

The half-Rivaini raised an eyebrow. "If you'd shown such perception as King, Cailan-"

"Anora would have regretfully and discreetly assassinated me," the blond interrupted dryly. "I am sure she is fond of me in her way, as I am of her, but hold no illusions: we mostly wed it because our fathers wished it."

"Whereas Celene stroked your ego, amongst other things," the Warden-Commander retorted with equal dryness.

"…Partly. But the alliance wouldn't have been as high-handed as people think." Cailan closed his eyes, remembering the last soiree he'd attended in Jader. Most of the Orlesian nobility were inbred, much like their wasp-waisted hounds: skinny, pale-skinned cretins with overpowdered wigs and masks far more substantial than they. Celene, whose own ancestry had been strengthened recently with Antivan blood, had wanted the Fereldan sturdiness and endurance blended with the Orlesian grace and cunning. Cailan felt that his people could use some of the Orlesian polish.

_Alas, it will never be. From what Eamon said of Alistair, he is not the sort to entertain a foreign alliance._ He could damn Howe to the Void for eternity except that would be too good a fate; it was a cunning plan Uncle Teagan had wrought until one man's greed and another's paranoia destroyed much of a good house.

_But out of shit an oak tree can grow. _His lips quirked as he recalled Mother Ailis' blunt proverb after he'd mocked a freeholder's son. Fergus, even in his grief and rage, would be a good Regent until – _if_ – Alistair came. Maybe his brother would cede to the Couslands. Duncan had been on the verge of conscripting him when he vanished from Kirkwall.

"And if Fergus should fall and Alistair too, there would be worse Kings than Uncle Teagan," he murmured. Teagan didn't know it but the new Arl of Redcliffe was a good, solid man with enough pragmatism to get things done but enough honour and human decency to keep his soul. Sinead, his Cousland bride, seemed to have a wide streak of common sense in her nature and a kind heart.

"Only if Anora goes down fighting," Duncan replied softly, grimly. "She may have known nothing of this, but unless she is made Chancellor and given continuing power over the country-"

Cailan shrugged. "She will be Teyrna of Gwaren. If she doesn't dally in remarrying, she'll bear an heir or three."

It had been a bitter cup of tea to swallow that _he_ was at fault. A lot of trouble could have been avoided if the Couslands had _just said_ it was the Summer Fever and Anora's fertility swiftly restored. Alistair could have been summoned to maintain the bloodline (his wife was that pragmatic) and then recognised as a noble.

"But it is no longer your concern." Duncan's voice was grave. "You may have wished this, Cailan, but you may find the eventual sacrifice too great to bear. Tonight, you will go into the Wilds, and when you return – you will never be the same."

The Warden-Commander gestured to him. "Go, spend the last few hours until sunset as you wish. They could be your last."

Cailan didn't need to be told twice. He carefully finished sharpening the sword before setting aside. Then he was off like a shot, eager to get a last bit of living in before he could die.

…

Kirkwall, 12th Justinian

Carver Hawke regarded the latest Fereldan volunteer with… well… surprise. "You don't strike me as the self-sacrificing type," he finally told the olive-skinned man with intense brown eyes. "In fact, I seem to recall some pretty damned interesting remarks about my sisters-"

"There's somethin' comin' in this Blight, somethin' the Witches of the Wild are plannin' for," the half-Chasind rogue known as Daveth responded. "If ya listened ta anythin' Jaen told ya, then ya'll know I can… peek inta their heads, sorta."

Jaen _had_ told him and Carver recalled the tales of skinwalkers. Daveth was discreet about his talent, for the most part, because the Chantry took a dim view of anything viewed as 'magic'. Malcolm, their father (it had been cathartic to know his end even if Carver felt frustrated he was _still_ walking in someone's footsteps!), had explained old talents like the Second Sight and skinwalking lingered in forgotten parts of the world.

"And you're not gonna tell me what it is," Carver noted.

"Nah. Hard ta explain an' ya'd think I was nuts ta begin with."

"You're volunteering to become a Warden during a Blight based on something you _might_ have seen in an abomination's head. Daveth, your sanity is already in question."

The tracker regarded him with those burning brown eyes. "There's monsters up an' down an' all 'round the earth. I dunno if the Witches' plan is a good one or bad, but reckon someone should be there ta stop it if it's bad."

Carver shrugged. "Well, fine. Your choice. Stroud and Riordan told me to recruit as many stupid bastards as I can, so welcome. Go out and get shit-faced at the Hanged Man because it might be the last time you see Jaen and 'Bela."

Daveth nodded, and for a moment the Warden saw the shadow of the cocky rogue he'd been in Lothering. Then the tracker left and Carver went back to doing the paperwork he _loathed_ but the Senior Wardens saw fit to make him do.

…

"_Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."_

Daveth's lids slowly peeled open as he reeled from the aftermath of drinking darkspawn blood with a lyrium chaser and a touch of archdemon blood for good measure. He wasn't surprised to discover he survived – the Trickster God either loved or hated him too much to let him die – though judging by the pounding in his head, having those four or five mugs of watered-down piss it pleased Corff to call the Hanged Man's finest beer had been a bad idea. He would have much preferred a pretty woman's face to Carver Hawke's ugly mug, but despite the big swordsman's relative youth, he was shaping up to be competent like his sisters. Even if he was a right arse about it.

The half-Chasind sat up, noting that the bodies of the preceding recruits had been dragged aside and covered with their cloaks. He was the only survivor.

"You survived. Good." The light, clear voice belonged to a woman – but there had been none present during his Joining. Daveth cast a glance at the source and found himself staring at the pale, aquiline features of an elf so intricately tattooed that the black dizzying whorls of her face were hypnotic to try and follow.

"Dalish," he croaked, receiving a solemn nod in reply.

"Dorf'asha Mahariel," she introduced herself, offering a slim hand to help him up. Weak as he was, Daveth accepted with a pained grimace, even though he was embarrassed as hell.

"Daveth," he answered.

"I know," Dorf'asha confirmed. She wore silverite-studded blue leathers, worn and comfortable, and her staff was polished with time and use. "But I have always known you as Dorf'Harellan, the Grey Trickster."

"If ya're about ta start spoutin' shit about prophecies-"

"No." Dorf'asha's solemn face briefly smirked. "But in the Veil, that place between the world and the Fade, sometimes a glimpse of what will be is available. I saw you and knew you as the Grey Trickster."

Chasind shamans possessed a similar ability; Daveth supposed a Keeper (as she obviously was) could catch a vision or two. "So's what's a Keeper doin' in the Wardens instead?" he asked after accepting and drinking from the waterskin she handed him.

"I was born at moon-dark with the last breath of my mother. Amongst the Dalish, that destines me for the Grey Wardens, whose patron is Falon'Din, the Friend of the Dead." Dorf'asha smiled briefly. "It has been a hard life, but a good one."

Daveth grunted, not trusting himself to speak. He really didn't believe in superstition and it really seemed like moon-dark was a really shitty time to be born.

Her wise grey eyes regarded him and Carver, who was still in the room, calmly. "Know this, both of you: Grey Wardens have a lesser span of years than all others and you will likely die in the Deep Roads. You will hunger and thirst so much the more. No children are likely to be born of your loins. And as you sense darkspawn, so too might they do you."

"We usually wait a few weeks to tell them that," groused Stroud, Warden-Commander of the Free Marches, as Carver scowled and Daveth blinked.

"When one's end is certain, the path is simpler," Dorf'asha responded coolly. "I don't know why I have seen these two in the edge between waking and sleeping, Stroud, only that I have. They are important in this life – and perhaps the next."

Stroud, who seemed to be something of an atheist, rolled his eyes but said nothing. Carver, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes. "How come I don't get an elven name?" he groused.

"Perhaps I could call you Dorf'len – Grey Child?" the elf replied mockingly.

Rebuked, Carver shut up and Daveth resolved to introduce the Warden to Jaen. "There's got to be… advantages, right? I know Carver don't need no lyrium fer his templar stuff, but that could be his mage-blood."

"You will become stronger, faster and more enduring than all other men excepting the Qunari. You can sense the darkspawn… and use the Taint to slay the archdemon." Dorf'asha's quiet gaze settled on Daveth. "And as you said, the Taint can… _enhance_ certain abilities. Your skinwalking, Carver's templar powers."

"Well, aren't ya full of cheery news," Daveth observed, finding something of his old humour. But Dorf'asha (Grey Woman, he thought it meant) was right. He already knew his destination. He only had to travel there.

"My time has come," the elf replied simply. "I came only to see you and the warrior."

Stroud's face paled. "It is time for your Calling?"

Tentatively, now his head was hurting a bit less, Daveth extended his thought towards Stroud. If he could read a Witch because they could shapeshift, maybe he could read a Warden because he was now part-darkspawn. Or something like that.

_The First Warden goes to die. Maker's breath, who'll take her place?_

Daveth drew his mind back like he'd been burned. In that one glimpse he saw the stark reality of a Warden's end.

_Ya know how ya'll die. All ya gotta do now is live until then,_ he thought wryly as Dorf'asha nodded calmly.

"Ya can't die until ya've drank at the Hanged Man," he told her, now feeling more of himself than he had been since peering into Yavana's skull. "Besides, I'm pretty sure Baby Hawke would _love_ ta introduce ya ta his sister…"

Dorf'asha grinned as Carver glared. "Tamlen and you would have gotten on marvellously," she noted as she leaned on her staff. "Come then. Let us annoy the shem'len in their drinking place."

"Jaen and Isabela are goin' ta love ya," he grinned, leading her from the room in the small warehouse the Wardens kept in Lowtown for their visits. "All night long, if ya let them."

"I am not listening to my sister's sex life being discussed," Carver declared, proving for all his maturity he was still about fifteen.

But he joined them regardless – and Daveth understood that he'd made the right choice after all.


End file.
